Monsters in my Friends
by sinflower.exe
Summary: Don't need to know this but I have insomnia, so I decided to write something for my late-nighty depression! Enjoy, and I hope it's sad.


**A/N:** depression is catching up on me. It's like 2am and I have school tomorrow but I felt the urge to write (who knew that you only want to write how you feel when you're feeling horrible)

How does one tell the world that they just want to be loved?

It doesn't need to be romantic, nor platonic, it just needs to be something that isn't as simple as a mere ' _like',_ or as extreme as ' _obsessive'_ but somewhere in between that can be described as love, just something. Angels don't touch him because he is like a demon to the world, a waste of space, a waste of oxygen, a waste of everything and anything, he's the cause of all problems, everything would be so much better without him. So when the light leaves you, who else is to hold you but the dark? The sad, sad dark, but what if even darkness itself finds you a waste of time? Then without those who else is to hold you but _space?_ But yet even to him the space crowds around him, suffocates him, no matter how empty the room gets, and oh god, it gets empty. Empty until nothing is around him. Empty until it's not light nor dark.

When a heart sings, it creates a beautiful sound, but he doesn't have a heart, and yet it makes such an ugly sound.

Why did the world have to make him like this?

The world raised him, by giving him a family, but murdered him inside by giving him too much pain for him to handle. Yet he can always find a way to thank the world, especially when he found out there was a way to gain happiness. Temporary happiness, for even just a second, but that will be more than enough until death surrounds like like an aura, a morbid aura. A painting without a story.

Then what happens when he finds out he's immortal?

He knows it's not normal, not even for nations. Sure the countries could live on, but personifications die just as easily, maybe a notch or two harder, but nothing a bullet couldn't do. He raised the gun to his head, a smile on his face as he pressed the trigger, a wonderful sigh of content coming out his mouth, and the world just watched, a giggle coming out of it's mouth, as it watched him from outside.

There was a loud banging sound, a hole through his head, his eyes closed, but he wasn't dead. The wound patched itself up a second later, and he could only stare, stare at the horror. Stare at the fact who smirked right back at him. The gun in his hand was starting to break because of how much pressure he put on it by squeezing it, and even if that gun was his neck, he still wouldn't be dead, and that was so much more _hilarious_ than anything else in the world at that moment. The other personifications wanted to live forever, but knew they wouldn't, yet he didn't wanted to live forever, but knew he had to.

As hilarious as that was, he didn't laugh. Not a tiny smile either.

Monsters surrounded him, because monsters liked to make fun of other monsters. Everytime he had work to do he could sense them under his desk, and he could see their pearly white smiles and eyes. He can see them in his curtains, or making patterns on his couch, and even when he went to the meetings- they were disguised as the other nations. Were they disguised or did he never see them until now? He felt that hidden part inside his body filled with satisfaction of how he would live to see their deaths, but his mind screamed back at it. What if it was also the mind that had that dark thought?

"Are you alright?" Fake concern danced in his purple eyes, wavy orange-blonde hair placed behind that face that was the one of many that burned his back, "You seemed a bit different these past years."

 _No, I've always been this way, it just took you this long to notice,_ he bit his tongue, no no, getting angry with others was not something he did, not because he cared for them, but because he just didn't. He didn't want to waste time with these stupid things like school kids, who would get mad with each other over the most stupid things, and whisper rumors, and _god-_ it annoyed him just thinking about it. Even China acted like them, despite claiming to be mature.

He faked another smile, "Whatcha talking about? Nothing's wrong here, bro." He tried to keep back tears from remembering what happened. It was almost heartbreaking how far he would go just to hide his true emotions from those who thought he was their friends, family, whatever, but he didn't care. He didn't care one bit how they felt, because soon enough, whatever they think won't matter, because they'll be in their graves, in coffins made of their own greed, selfishness, and lies. The lies will follow them even through Hell.

Hell was such a beautiful place to him.

The purple-eyed one left the room, leaving a path full of seeds, seeds to grow into even worser monsters, monsters that follow the path he made. Their flesh and blood were not red and pink, but more... _Let's say air-like, because just because you don't see them, doesn't mean they're not there._ So the blue-eyed one (the _him,_ and _he_ the whole time) just rested his chin on his hands, propped by his elbows, as he waited for the seeds to grow, they grew so quickly but at the same time so slowly. Time was never an issue for nations until now.

"Comrade, what are you looking at?" A voice interrupted him. A voice that sounded like his, but so so different.

Blue-eyed one blinked his eyes, crossing his legs on his chair, "Nothing, _comrade,"_ he mimicked back, "Why do you ask? When did you care?"

No response, but the answer stayed there. They never cared.

So he gets up, grabs his stuff, and starts to leave, walking down and up, right and left, this confusing maze made of everything that wasn't a maze to his home, as he enters not from the front door, but a window, and when he does he knows he's in his room, and plops down on his bed, making a small creaking sound. He knows it's not because of his weight, because despite others telling him how fat he was, he knew he wasn't at all, in fact he was quite slender, slim, anything you could use to describe a healthy person, but if he didn't care, why did he stop eating? Was it for fun, to tell them what they would've done to someone else that wasn't him?

He thinks too much, and he hates it.

So, he takes a couple of pills from a plastic bottle on a dresser next to his bed, and pops them in his mouth, taking a long drink of water from a bottle, that he isn't sure if it's alcohol or water, or maybe even just juice, but he isn't sure of anything anymore. He swallows, and sure enough, after a minute, he feels a drowsiness come over him, and he welcomes it.

He doesn't need a blanket, because he knows the monsters comfort him in his sleep, whether comforting his physical body, or in his dreams.


End file.
